


Mike Stamford's Corner Pub Confessional

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mike Stamford's Corner Pub Confessional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildcard_47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/gifts).



John Watson leaned back into the cracked, fake leather cushioning of the booth that he and Mike Stamford had been stubbornly occupying for the better part of two hours despite the scathing looks slung their way by a dozen other patrons forced to stand for want of a bar stool. It was well past midnight and he was pissed beyond even his own reckoning, but he damn well deserved it after the day he’d had. Hell, after the _week._ Not one but two cases in the last five days had ended in foot races across London, one of which had left him with bruised ribs and a torn jumper, and just this afternoon he had been dragged out of the flat in the middle of his tea by Sherlock-bloody-Holmes and paraded through the rain to measure water contamination levels in the puddles along Totenham Court Road. _Puddles._

Mike had been regaling him with tales of his students’ stupidity, anecdotes which became increasingly hilarious as the number of beers consumed increased. John appreciated these moments of normalcy with one of the few friends he did not share with Sherlock. For all he liked Greg Lestrade, it was almost a guarantee that pints with the Detective Inspector would eventually devolve into a discussion about the latest crime scene or Sherlock’s behavior thereat, and some nights, John just needed a break.

Why, then, was he finding it so difficult to get the image of Sherlock as he had left him back at 221B out of his head? John wanted to chalk it up to the alcohol; this persistent ruminating over the way Sherlock had been stretched out on the couch, the curve of his neck against the pillow and the way his curls flattened into the shape of the cushion, wasn’t normal. Or was it? John had to admit that this sort of idle fantasizing had become alarmingly frequent, and not even the groggy haze of London Pride sloshing through his bloodstream could make him forget how his breath had caught in his throat when Sherlock had grabbed his hand during their latest chase and tugged him out of the path of their target.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

The words were out of his mouth before he had thought them through, and John had a silly urge cover his mouth with his hands as though doing so might shove the words back down his throat.

“Sure, mate,” Mike said. He seemed bemused at this sudden turn in the conversation, but Mike had become used to John’s drunken ramblings, and he was doubtless steeling himself for another monologue.

 _Sod it,_ John thought. He had to tell someone, and it might as well be Mike. After all, he was the one who had thrown them together in the first place. John leaned across the table on shaky elbows, the table slick with the perspiration from half-a-dozen sweaty pint glasses, and met his friend’s bleary gaze with his own.

“IthinkIlovehim.”

“Sorry,” Mike laughed, squinting at him curiously, “what was that?”

“I said,” John gulped, trying to keep his voice from slurring, “I think I love him. Sherlock. I think I love him.”

For a moment, the sounds of the pub faded away as the realization that _he had done it_ , had finally said the words out loud, hit John with all the force of a wrecking ball. Blood rushed to his cheeks and he raked his fingers through his hair as he waited for a response. Incredulity, ridicule, denial: anything.

What he got was laughter. Mike had literally thrown his head back and given himself over to a full-bellied chortle that drowned out even the enthusiastic cheers of the Arsenal fans gathered around the corner telly. John was appalled, and in his desperation to take back his spontaneous confession, he began to stammer.

“D-don’t know why I said that. Stupid, really. Forget I said it; I’m sloshed, really should be getting home…”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Mike interrupted, wiping his eyes with one hand and planting the other firmly on John’s shoulder. “It’s just -- it’s about time.”


End file.
